Chapter 11
‘What do you mean, you can’t make it? It’s her ballet recital, for God’s sake.’
It’s no way to talk to my boss, but I. Am.
Fuming. I’m standing in a church hall in Westbourne Grove with Bea, who is the sweetest ballerina I could ever hope to see.
She’s kitted out in the palest pink leotard, tights, a wisp of a ballet skirt, and satin ballet shoes.
A soft cropped cardigan crosses over her chest and is tied behind her.
I’ve put her hair into a neat bun, and she has a little pink headband on to keep the baby hair off her sweet face.
And she’s looking up at me while her bloody father blows us off at the last minute.
‘I’m sorry, but it can’t be helped. I have an emergency to deal with here.’ His voice is clipped. ‘I have to go. Give her my love and send my apologies to her, please. I’ll see you later—I’m not sure what time I’ll be home.’
‘Don’t you want to tell her yourself? She’s not some client you can “send your apologies” to.’
‘I don’t have time. I can’t talk now, Saoirse. Later.’
He’s hung up. Un-bloody-believable. I stare at the phone before squatting down to Bea. He didn’t even have the decency to let his daughter down himself; he’s left the nanny to do his dirty work.
He should be here.
Her fucking mother should be here.
‘Hey, pet.’ I stroke Bea’s soft cheek. ‘Your Daddy is so sorry, but he’s got an emergency, and he’s not going to make it to your show. But he’s asked me to take loads of videos, okay? And we’re going to do something special after.’
My phone pings, and I look down. It’s from Miles.
Take her to The Biscuiteers after on Ken Park Rd. She loves it.
‘What’s a ‘mergency?’
I roll my eyes at the phone and turn back to Bea, whose eyes are getting bigger by the second.
‘It’s when something really important happens that you have to deal with quickly. Otherwise, he would definitely be here. He was so excited about it at breakfast this morning.’
‘But I want Daddy to be here.’ A giant tear rolls down her cheek. Her tiny mouth quivers. ‘I have to show him my snowflake dance.’
‘I know, pet. I know. Let’s put the same music on for him later, all right? I’ll ask your teacher for the playlist. And then you can do a recital for him later. He’ll love that.’
The recital is a delight. If I wasn’t so heartbroken on Bea’s behalf that no parent was here to see her, I’d be on cloud nine. Seeing twelve tiny girls, their faces grave with focus, executing wobbly pliés and bunny hops, is a rare treat. It’s a privilege to witness such a display of innocence.
I find my eyes pricking with tears as they pick up baskets of white confetti and do a little snow dance, fluttering around the room to Swan Lake and throwing their ‘snow’ in the air with wild abandon as they get deeper into their roles.
I’m biased, but Bea’s the best, even though she’s one of the younger members.
Her pointy feet are the straightest. Her stillness when they sit in a circle is commendable.
She has a lovely line, a natural grace. She is such a special little girl, and she deserves all the blessings that life holds.
At the very least, parents who actually show up for her.
That’s unfair, because Miles is clearly doing a great job with her despite all the work pressures he’s juggling, but I want to shake him for missing this. It’s his loss. Half an hour of this is the kind of quiet, profound joy that his millions can’t buy him. It’s like therapy.
After it’s finished, and I’ve showered Bea with kisses and praise, I do indeed take her to The Biscuiteers, which is a delightful, monochrome shop serving biscuits so beautifully iced that it’s a sacrilege to eat them.
But eat them we do, on the bus home, and they taste as good as they look.
Bea devours her nutcracker biscuit mercilessly.
We take the long way home, along the north side of Hyde Park and then down Park Lane, sitting on the upper deck so we can enjoy the beautiful hotels on one side and the hurdy-gurdy delights of Winter Wonderland on the other. Bea seems happy enough. We’ve salvaged the afternoon.
No thanks to Miles.
MILES
I slide my keycard through the door at seven.
I’m shattered. Emotionally drained. I brace myself for bright lights and godawful Christmas pop, but it doesn’t happen.
Instead, the lights are dimmed. The tree and fireplace garland aren’t quite so monstrous when they’re not competing with the chandeliers overhead.
The fire is on, low, and Saoirse has some atmospheric panpipe music on.
The two of them are laid out, in the space between the kitchen and the sofas, on yoga mats, doing downward dogs.
It should be a reassuring scene. It should be exactly the welcome I want after the afternoon I’ve had. But it’s the opposite, and I flip.
‘What the hell is going on here?’ My voice sounds rough and choked, even to me, and Saoirse’s head snaps up.
‘Daddy!’ My loyal little Bea flops to the floor, rolls over, and runs to me. Her little arms go around my thighs. She’s the sweetest thing: always so generous with her love. Even when I’m at my absolute worst, my lowest lows.
‘Hi, baby.’ I cup my hand around her glossy little head, attempt to ground myself. Saoirse’s kneeling on her mat, her hands on her thighs, staring at me.
‘Get rid of that stuff. Now.’ I gesture at the mats.
‘What? The mats?’ Her voice has a you can’t be serious edge.
‘Yes. Now. Please.’
She gets to her feet and starts to roll them up.
I sigh and pick Bea up, carrying her through to my room. I need to be alone with her for a few minutes, away from that woman who can’t begin to know the pain my daughter and I are in.
I lower us both onto my bed and put her on my lap.
‘My baby.’ I rub my nose against hers. ‘My beautiful girl. Look at you. You look like a real ballerina.’ She’s still in full regalia. Palest pink from head to toe.
‘You missed it, Daddy.’
‘I know. And I’m so, so sorry. I would never, ever miss it if I could help it, but I had to take Angela to the hospital. You remember Angela? My assistant?’
‘Is she sick?’ Bea’s hand strokes my jaw, plays with my earlobe.
‘No. She’s not sick, thank God. But she’s having a baby, and she was feeling… a bit sick, earlier. So we had to go to the hospital so the doctor could check her out. But she’s fine. And so is her tiny baby.’
‘When will her baby come?’
‘In springtime. March. That’s three months from now. But she needed my help, sweetheart. I didn’t want her to go to the hospital on her own, because she was a bit scared. Otherwise I would never, ever have missed your recital.’
She’s quiet for a moment. ‘That’s okay. Did you hold her hand?’
‘I did. I squeezed it like this. She said it made her feel better.’
‘Can I show you my snowflake dance?’
‘I would love that, sweetheart. I’d love that so much.’
We walk back into the drawing room together. Saoirse’s pottering around, tidying things up. Avoiding my eyes. The yoga mats are rolled neatly by the front door. She must have borrowed them from the wellness centre.
Bea breaks the tension. ‘Daddy said I can do my snowflake dance for him.’
‘What an excellent idea!’ Saoirse’s voice is artificially high and unnecessarily enthusiastic. ‘Here, pet.’ She hands Bea a bowl. ‘Why don’t you go into the bathroom and tear up some toilet paper into tiny bits, and we can use it as your snowflakes? I’ll come and help you in a sec.’
Once Bea’s out of earshot, I take a step towards her. ‘Saoirse.’
She stands and turns to me, crosses her arms over her chest.
‘I’m sorry I overreacted when I came in.’
‘I honestly don’t know what we were doing wrong. It was just a bit of yoga. I was trying to wind her down.’
‘I know.’ A quick glance behind me, to make sure Bea’s still in the bathroom. ‘Look. I’ve had a shitty afternoon. I had to take Angela to A&E.’
‘What? Is she okay?’
‘Yes, thank God. But she’s six months pregnant, and she started bleeding. Heavily. She was fucking terrified, and her partner was stuck in Birmingham. I couldn’t let her go alone. They’re keeping her in overnight, and he turned up eventually, but the baby’s fine.’
‘That was your emergency? Why didn’t you say something?’
‘I was in a cab with her when I called you, and I didn’t want to betray her confidence.’
‘I was really cross.’ She rubs between her eyes. ‘I thought you were blowing Bea off for some stupid work emergency.’
‘I could tell. You made it pretty obvious. But Saoirse. I appreciate how fiercely protective you are of my daughter, but do not second-guess me again. I am your employer. For God’s sake, don’t presume to tell me how to behave with my own daughter.’
To her credit, she meets my eyes. ‘You’re totally right. I’m sorry. I was just gutted on her behalf. But it’s none of my business. It won’t happen again.’
‘While we’re on apologies, I owe you one for behaving like a wanker just now.
’ I fiddle with the loose change in my pocket.
‘Bea’s mother was—is—a yoga queen. It’s one of the reasons she’s gone off to LA.
She left me for some guy who is apparently far more enlightened and charismatic than me—her words.
She’s going to help him run his holistic wellness centre.
She fancies it as the next big wellness empire, I think. ’
She’s staring at me. ‘They both sound horrific. They sound like they deserve each other.’
My first laugh of the day comes out as a snort. ‘That’s nice of you to say. I suspect you’re right.’
‘She told you he was more charismatic than you?’
‘I mean, I know it’s hard to imagine, but…’
She giggles. ‘Charismatic just sounds like sleazy to me. Or fake. I can’t imagine you get accused of being fake very often.’
‘Nope. Or charismatic, funnily enough. It’s just—seeing you there on the mats with Bea in your yoga gear—it pissed me off.
It reminded me of her. She used to do lots of yoga with Bea, before she fucked off, and I was worried it would trigger her.
So I lashed out at you, and it was unfair. I’m sorry.’
‘No lasting damage done. Would you like me to get you a drink?’
I think. ‘I would. Only if you’ll join me. I think we have a show to watch.’
She strolls into the kitchen to fetch the wine. Her yoga pants and vest top showcase her beautiful figure: long, long legs and the perfect swell of her arse beneath a narrow waist. The way those cheeks move when she walks.
A messy bun contains her dark curls and exposes the elegant curves of her neck and shoulders. I’m fucking exhausted, and I’d give anything right now to walk into the kitchen behind her, slide a hand around the dip of that waist, and lay my weary head on her shoulder.
I stand there and watch as she moves around the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of white wine from the fridge, uncorking it, pouring it into some glasses. I watch every single thing until she turns and walks back towards me. Holding out a glass. Smiling at me, any unease already forgotten.
‘Here you go, Grooge. Get this down you.’
I swill, eyes still on her. I’m too tired to make the effort to keep my walls up. Something’s shifted after the minor altercation we just had. It’s as if a little snapping feels far healthier than the polite dance we’ve been doing around each other the past couple of weeks.
‘What did you go for?’ I ask, brandishing my glass.
‘It says Meursault on the label, but I’m hoping it’s some personality in a bottle. For you, that is. I don’t need any help in that department.’
I taste. It’s excellent. Wine this good deserves food.
‘Have you eaten?’
‘No. I’ll grab something on the way home.’
‘Stay and eat with us?’
‘Bea’s eaten, actually.’
I hesitate. ‘Stay and eat with me, then?’ Too creepy. ‘The least I can do after bawling you out is feed you.’
‘Hmm.’ She narrows her eyes at me. ‘For future reference, I’m a food whore. All manner of bad behaviour can be glossed over with the promise of a good meal.’
I take a step towards her. What the hell am I doing?
I’m flirting with my daughter’s beautiful nanny, for God’s sake.
Is this what I’ve been reduced to? Hitting on employees because the only love in my life comes from a four-year-old, and I have neither the time, energy, nor most definitely the inclination to find anyone to fill the woman-sized gap in my existence?
‘Room service does excellent mash. And dauphinoise. And I can highly recommend the triple-cooked chips.’
She licks her lips. ‘You wouldn’t make potato-based cultural assumptions about me. Would you, Miles?’
I just stand there, the corner of my mouth tugging up into a grin.
She sighs. ‘You win. Get me some dauphinoise, and we’ll pretend your sub-par efforts at communication and your little hissy fit didn’t happen.’